


The space they can't touch

by spyhop



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Anxiety, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Mass Effect 3, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:32:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27598267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spyhop/pseuds/spyhop
Summary: Nothing like a little shared trauma to add flavour to a relationship.
Relationships: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian
Kudos: 37





	The space they can't touch

“Have you ever felt like you were just screaming into a void?”

Garrus looked away from the glaring orange screens he’d been pretending to be engrossed in and turned to face her. She’d walked purposefully into the Main Battery almost ten minutes ago, her expression pulled tight, her posture defiant, and this was the first thing Shepard had said that wasn’t a grumble.

“All the time.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little.

“You remember I worked at C-Sec, right?” he went on, teasing. “You know how they loved to listen to me. Hung on every word. Definitely trusted me to do my job.” To anyone else, he’d have sounded obnoxious and patronizing.

“It’s just—I don’t get it. I don’t get it, Garrus,” she sighed, adjusting her grip on the steaming mug she’d come in with. “I told them. How many times did I tell them?”

He leaned against his desk. “I know,” he said softly. “I was there.”

Shepard exhaled sharply through her nose, the corner of her mouth twitching up. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was close.

“Yeah. You’ve always been there,” she reminded herself. It was something she tried not to take for granted, but when her head was swimming with the continuous tally of favors the galaxy expected her to perform and the delicate diplomatic relationships to dance around - _when had that become part of her job again?_ \- sometimes a reminder helped bring her back to solid ground. To him.

It was nice, having someone around who understood.

She’d been trying to cool down after yet another politically-charged hissy fit in the War Room; this time it was the Quarian Admirals Gerrel and Raan, who had not only begun risky open warfare with the Geth, but were squabbling amongst themselves about the best way to go about it. That there was infighting in the Migrant Fleet leadership wasn’t surprising in the slightest, but it didn’t make it any less exhausting to deal with. On top of _everything_ else.

And of all the narrow escapes they’d had over the years — in just the last few weeks, even — being fired upon by a supposed ally wasn’t an experience she wished to repeat. Even if it _had_ worked out. And for Raan to then suggest experimentation on Legion, a trusted friend? The goddamn cherry on top of an already-shit sundae.

_When was the last time she’d been able to have a sundae?_

If only they didn’t need the goddamn Migrant Fleet so badly.

Talking with Tali immediately afterwards hadn’t exactly helped. Of course Shepard was relieved to have her onboard the Normandy again, but she’d found herself holding her tongue. Tali was feeling the weight of her own responsibilities as a new Admiral. For fuck’s sake, she’d literally said she’d asked herself _What would Shepard do?_ when accepting the role. Though the Quarian had been along for the ride from almost the beginning and was no stranger to her Commander’s unfiltered thoughts, the last thing Shepard wanted to do right now was let those cracks show when her friend needed someone to look up to. So, instead: another famous crewmate pep talk it was.

Still bristling, and now feeling guilty on top of it, Shepard had made her way down to the Mess Hall, grabbed the first mug within reach and poured out the remainder of whatever hot sludge James had recently made. It smelled like it was probably heavily caffeinated, and that was good enough for her. It gave her hands something to hold, and she could focus on how it smelled and how the heat felt against her fingers, not on the spiraling thoughts that clouded her mind and made her limbs tingle. Mordin had called it a grounding technique. 

_Mordin._

Fuuuuuck.

Feeling her mind start to teeter dangerously over a precipice, she’d drifted towards the Main Battery.

Now, Garrus was studying her quietly, giving her the space he knew she needed. Shepard had propped herself up against his weapons bench and was absently looking over the tools splayed out around his rifle as she found her words.

“We wouldn’t be in the shit we’re in now if they had just listened back then.”

“I know,” he offered.

“Fuck the Council.” She reached out and picked up a small screwdriver from the bench, turning it over in her fingers as she cradled the mug in her other hand. The metal felt cool and smooth. “Fuck them and their petty bullshit. If they’d just _listened_ from the beginning…”

It had been years since Saren and Sovereign, but he knew she carried the weight of the consequences of the Council’s early inaction on the Reaper threat with her every day.

“I know.”

“They didn’t do _anything_ , Garrus. And now look where we are. It’s like nothing we did mattered.”

Her grip tightened on the screwdriver. 

“So many people are dead because they convinced the galaxy there was nothing to be afraid of for so long. I just can’t get my head around it. And still we come running to sort all their shit out when they need help.”

Garrus shifted his weight against the desk, bringing his arms forward to fold his hands in front. “I know,” he said again.

“The fucking _Quarians_ fired on us. While we were helping them!”

“Yeah. Can’t say that was ideal.”

“How did you manage it, Garrus? Waking up every day knowing you were onto something and not being able to do a damn thing to get them to listen?” She knew the answer already, but it felt good to get it out.

“I didn’t manage it.” Garrus shrugged, shoulder plates clicking. “It got to a point where I _was_ just screaming into the void. Then you came along, and—well. You know the rest.”

Shepard looked up and met his eyes across the room. She did know, but a reminder never hurt. He took the cue.

“We were unstoppable once we teamed up. They underestimated us. Saren, Sovereign… the Council,” he continued, crossing the room towards her. “Their own arrogance was their downfall. We—you—gave them everything you could so they could act. They chose not to. And when the evidence was knocking on the door of the Citadel they still refused to acknowledge their own failings. You tried, Shepard, even when they threw it back in your face. But you keep trying. We keep fighting.”

He was close enough now to gently pry the screwdriver from her fingers and take the mug from her other hand, setting it down on the weapons bench beside her. He took both of her hands in his own and held them up in the small space between them.

“We keep helping. Even in an ungrateful galaxy, it’s the right thing to do.”

 _Dammit, Garrus._ He always knew what what she needed to hear.

She allowed herself to be pulled into him and rested her head against his chest. His armor was cool against her cheek.

“This whole damn ship is full of people who’ve done the right thing,” she said, more softly this time; the sharp, angry edges she’d come in with were fading. “They’ve been doing the right thing the whole time. Don’t they deserve to live their lives too, after all they’ve sacrificed? To see their families and friends again?”

Garrus placed an arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. Shepard turned her head, hiding her face against him. Her voice was slightly muffled by his armor.

“I’m so tired, Garrus.”

He knew she was having trouble sleeping. She hadn’t really talked about it yet, but he knew her well enough by now to be able to pick up on the little indications that she wasn’t OK. Not the ones everyone else knew; the Normandy crew were an observant bunch but it didn’t take a genius to recognize the tells of a stressed-out Commander Shepard, like the uptick in cursing or the bags under her eyes. Very few of them had spent so long at her side both in and out of combat, and fewer still had developed such a connection with her that, in the thick of battle with enemy fire raining down, they could read each other so well they practically danced as they fought. And only Garrus had been able to know a Shepard with her shields fully down: a vulnerable woman who sometimes just needed a fucking break.

She had let him in, and he had done the same.

“You’re allowed to be tired,” Garrus said. He felt her let more of her weight lean on him in response, as if giving him permission to hold her up. “This is exhausting. _War_ is exhausting. Trying to save the entire galaxy…? It’s huge, Shepard. I wish I could say it’s going to get easier, but we know that’s never a guarantee.”

“Ha.” Even her laugh sounded tired, but she looked up to meet his gaze. “I can always count on you to be a ray of sunshine.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

“You’re damn right I wouldn’t.”

They both knew their outlook was grim; the odds were so stacked against them it was laughable. This was the endgame, and it was getting really hard to show resilience with Reapers bearing down on the doorstep of almost every system despite her best efforts. She would do it anyway; she’d suck it up and embody that classic Shepard Defiance she was known for. Her crew needed a leader. The galaxy needed saving no matter how bad the odds were. 

But here in the Main Battery they could let the cracks show, even if it was just to each other. 

It was nice, having someone around to trust completely. 

They’d faced seemingly impossible odds before; it wasn’t that that gripped Shepard’s nerves and invaded her dreams. It was the fact that their warnings to _prevent this exact scenario_ had been waved off for years, and as a result, for the first time, failure was beginning to feel like it could become a reality.

The Normandy crew wasn’t used to failure.

Back when Saren was their immediate concern, being gaslighted by C-Sec and wading through all the related bureaucratic bullshit had been frustrating. As hard as he tried — and he did, every single day — Garrus was sure he couldn’t fully comprehend the extent of what Shepard must be feeling.

 _Spirits_ , he thought as he dropped both of his hands to her waist. _She’s taken down Reapers, she’s died and been brought back, she took us all through the Omega-4 Relay and out the other side — and it’s damn galactic hubris that shakes her._

As if reading his thoughts, Shepard reached up and cupped the right side of his face, brushing her thumb along his scarred mandible. “You doing OK?”

He leaned his head into her touch and thought about his answer carefully. He didn’t want to add his own pressing worries about family and developments on the Palaven battlefield on top of everything, but he was about as good at hiding his worries from her as she was at hiding hers from him. Which is to say that they both absolutely sucked at it.

They knew each other too damn well.

“You don’t have to tell me now,” she said, gently pushing his face back towards her so they could meet each other’s eyes again. “But you know I’m here when you want to.”

He flared his mandibles in amusement. “Stop stealing the things I’m supposed to say as a supportive boyfriend.”

She shrugged, leaning back against the weapons bench and reaching for the mug. It was far past her ideal drinking temperature now, but she lifted it to her mouth anyway in a poor attempt to hide her smirk. “I’m psychic. You're gonna have to do better than that to keep me smitten, Garrus.” 

He scoffed. “That’s not what you said last—“ 

A swift but playful boot to his groin sent him stumbling back in an exaggerated display of pain, his voice deliberately devoid of emotion. “Shepard! How could you. We’ll never have kids now.” 

She laughed into that awful drink as he returned to whatever work he’d been pretending to do when she entered. The battery in the center of the room hummed, providing a monotonous, somewhat soothing backdrop to the rhythmic clacking as he typed. 

“Hey,” she said after a few quiet minutes.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you. For letting me have this space.”

“You do the same for me,” he said truthfully.

“Yeah. We’re pretty good.”

“I know.”

It wouldn’t be long before they’d be on Rannoch and dealing with whatever fresh hell the consequences of the renewed Quarian-Geth conflict would bring. But at least they had this time, right now, to just exist unapologetically.

**Author's Note:**

> Who knew Reapers were such a good metaphor for a global pandemic? I've had some feelings to get out. (Alternative title: Ah Yes, "Covid")


End file.
